


October Nightmares

by Fever_Dreams



Series: October Nightmares (Fills for Goretober and Whumptober 2018) [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Bloody Hands, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Goretober, Shock, Stabbing, Whump, Whumptober, barbed wire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 11:22:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16174052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fever_Dreams/pseuds/Fever_Dreams
Summary: A collection of fic written for the various October prompt lists out there that caught my eye.Day 1: Stabbed and Barbed Wire - Jon is HuntedDay 2: Bloody Hands - Martin is in shock





	1. Day 1 Stabbed and Barbed Wire

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not using a single prompts list, probably won’t hit every day, and will likely mix and match to my twisted little heart’s content. And away we go!!!
> 
> I've decided rather than to grow a giant wall of tags as each chapter adds to the pile of potentially triggering things to continue this as a collection. These two will stay together but from now on each prompt will be its own thing with separate tags.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:  
> -torture  
> -strangulation  
> -stabbing

 

The metal fence bit into his back as he was pushed against it. His foot slipped on the wet pavement and he crashed to one knee. 

“Get up, Archivist,” the man standing over him growled. 

Hair wet from the rain hung in his eyes as he clutched the stitch in his side and fought to catch his breath. The cold seemed to reach through his sodden clothes to his very bones. Every breath of the late fall air was an ice pick to his lungs. The only warmth he felt were the bright spots of pain where the half-feral, man had struck him earlier.

“I said, get up.” 

When Jon still made no move to stand the other man gripped him by his coat and hauled him to his feet. For a moment the eyes that bored into him had slitted pupils. He blinked and they were round again. Still hungry, still bright with the glee of a cat with a cornered mouse, but blessedly human.

Before he could speak, there was a calloused hand across the Archivist’s mouth. Jon struggled against it but froze in place when he felt the knife point ghost against his neck. Jagged pain burned along his collarbone as the Hunter pulled a piece of barbed wire from the fence behind him and wrapped it around his throat twice. The rusted metal pushed against his skin, drawing blood, when he swallowed.

“Hold still now, or it will only get worse. You don’t want to hang yourself on that, do you? Nasty way to go.” 

Jon’s fingers fumbled for the ends of the wire binding him to the fence but they were just out of reach. The Hunter laughed at Jon’s frantic attempts to free himself; as he pulled against the garrote to get closer only to fall back coughing after a few moments. 

“I’d like to think this will teach you a lesson about sticking your nose where it’s not wanted but I think that might be the one thing your lot will never learn.” 

The Hunter crowded into Jon’s space again. “Maybe I should leave you with something to remember me by?” He flicked open a pocket knife with a well practiced motion. “Though it's more of a signature than a statement, really.” 

“No! No, please!” 

The knife was so sharp he barely felt it go in; an odd pressure followed by warmth spreading from a point in his lower abdomen. The cold intensified everywhere else and he felt the tips of his fingers start to go numb. 

There was a hand on his face. No that was wrong, the man was pinching his cheek in some mockery of affection before ruffling his hair and patting him on the head. From somewhere far away he heard the rumbling of a deep voice warning him to keep his feet under him until someone finds him. 


	2. Day 2 - Bloody Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for:   
> -shock  
> -blood  
> -dissociation

Martin stares blankly ahead. He is vaguely aware he has been doing it for a while but has lost all sense of time. Someone guides him away and sits him down on a bench. A blanket is pressed across his shoulders. Martin continues to stare forward, seeing nothing and everything all at once. 

There is tea in his hands. How did that get there? The rust coating his hands smears along the paper cup. It crusts along his nail beds, still wet in places dry in others. Sticky. There is a metallic smell in the air much stronger than that of the tea. The blanket has fallen behind him. The tea is cold. 

Voices swirl around him, Martin can hear concern as well as anger warp and dip. He hears his name. Are they talking to him? About him? Why? He’s not important, not worth this kind of fuss. Martin stares forward and wishes for the buzzing in his head to stop. Even pain would be preferable to whatever this is. He’s not hurt, he just is. Something happened to him, or maybe he did something, though he’s not sure what. The past is fogged to nothing, the present is fuzzy with static, and the future will never come. 


End file.
